The Warlock
by Chaosweaver Amon
Summary: When a young farm hand Grimlon's family is brutally murdered, he his thrust upon his dark destiny.


**Prologue**

_The rat was whimpering as he ran, his grimy grey cloak billowing behind him. "Got to get to master, must get to master!" he muttered nervously as he went, his bare feet slapping against the dirty stones beneath him. The ruined hall was empty, so every step echoed through the night, alerting the rat's presence to anybody who was close. Not that anything would dare get near the castle, nobody trusted it; and for good reason. Anybody who entered the vicinity of the castle would never be seen again, no matter who it was. As he rounded the bend, still muttering, he stopped to take a breather; he felt as if his lungs were going to collapse. It was a mistake. His last mistake. Snarling, a ragged wolf with one eye crept into the moonlight, and prepared to pounce. Drawing the small black dagger from his cloak, the rat swung wildly at it, but to no avail; the wolf didn't even flinch, it just stepped closer and closer. His task popped into his head again, so he bolted away, this time shrieking "Master, MASTER!". The wolf took this as a sign to hunt, and shot after the rat, growling viciously. It leaped up, sinking its teeth into the rat's neck, and tried to snap it by whipping its head back and forth, snarling. With a shriek the rat stabbed over and over into the wolf's greasy pelt, blood flying every time he drew back his frail arm. Finally with a whine, the wolf collapsed on top of him, pinning him to the floor. "Master...m-master..." his voice was now a reedy whisper._

"What is it, rodent?" a deep voice boomed from the shadows, causing the rat's hair to stand on end. "W-w-wa..." he sputtered, coughing up blood. "Warlock...there's...a...w-warlock..." he wheezed, and could practically feel his master tense. " WHAT?" he roared, and lifted the corpse off of his servant, flinging it into one of the ancient walls. Kneeling down, into the moonlight, the scarred face of a white wolf with red eyes was visible, teeth bared. "A name," he growled, kneeling atop the rat's chest. "GIVE ME A NAME!" Coughing violently now, the rat's voice was a barely audible wheeze. "G...g..." the massive clawed hand of the wolf lifted him a foot off the ground, showing no signs of effort whatsoever. "SPEAK! I COMMAND YOU TO SPEAK!"

The rat's eyes rolled back into his head as he gasped his final word; "Grimlon..."

* * *

**Chapter I  
The Accursed**

Grimlon was humming quietly to himself as he swung his axe into the logs. The sun was setting, and there were no sounds to be heard across the farm, apart from the peaceful sounds of nature around him, and the crack of steel on wood. Tossing aside the two fresh halves, he placed another long log on the ground in front of him. Raising his axe, he threw it down onto the log with a loud _*chop*_ cleaving the wood perfectly in half. With barely a single stray splinter, the insides of the two pieces were smooth to the touch, due to the razor sharp blade of the axe. Grimlon liked his tools sharp, it made everything easier and more accurate, in most cases. There was no such thing as a blade that was too sharp for him, no matter what situation, you couldn't go wrong with a good blade.

As the sun sank lower into the sky, and the pile of logs got smaller and smaller, Grimlon knew he should have been back by now. Especially tonight of all nights. Friday the 13th could be a gruesome affair in Doomwood, especially considering there was a full moon tonight. On more than one occasion had a couple rogue undead had wandered into the vicinity of the farm, but some of the other workers had dispatched of them. There had even been a ghoul once! What a stir that had caused; it bit one of the stablehands and gave one of the field workers a couple of nasty scars. But, that was life in Doomwood, you never knew what could turn up out of the blue, for better or worse. By now the sun was nearly completely out of sight, and the moon was clearly visible in the dark sky. Filling up the wagon with the logs, he laid his axe on top of them, and strode towards the woodshed. As he got closer, he noticed the candle that was usually lit in the window was out; there wasn't a light to be seen. _Curious..._ he thought. _The wind must have blown it out._ Upon thinking this, he then realized there was no wind to be heard of, and even if there was, it couldn't have gotten inside the shed.

He shrugged off the thought, there was surely some reasonable explanation. He reached the shed, and pushed the door open, dumped his logs, and laid the wheelbarrow against the wall. It was getting quite cold, he realized. Picking up the axe, he hurried towards the direction of the large farmhouse. To get there from the woodshed he would have to go down the dirt road for about a half mile, then cross the field to the raised porch, ring the bell and have the steps lowered down to him. It suddenly felt like an agonizingly lengthy journey to him, especially when it was now dark. Who knew what could be lurking in those woods? Ghouls, goblins, maybe even a vampire! Or a werewolf! That would be his luck. To run into a werewolf during a full moon on Friday the 13th. Increasing his pace, he aimed to get back to the house as quickly as possible. In his haste, as he came around a bend, he gave a start when he saw the body.

Laying in the road, a bloody body was illuminated in the moonlight, a pitchfork laying beside him, gleaming with blood. Kneeling down, Grimlon turned the face towards him. It was one of the farmhands, John, who had been tossing some hay earlier. Three deep slashes came down from the top of his head, to the bottom of his chest, blood flowing profusely. It was still warm, but he could tell the man was dead. Leaping to his feet, Grimlon sprinted as fast as he could down the road, trying to remain calm in light of the situation. Whatever had killed John must have done it recently, so easily could be still in the area. His boots thudded against the ground, and it was a time like this that he was thankful for his physique, a reward for the work he did on the farm. His long, powerful legs propelled him quickly down the road, and it felt as if he was only gaining speed. Then, finally, after what felt like a lifetime, he was running across the long field towards the house, which was mainly dark, only a couple candles in some of the windows. He suddenly grasped the situation as he tripped over something soft, and landed heavily. Without even having to look, he knew it was a body. He also knew that whatever had done this damage was probably inside the house, but he didn't care. It was the adrenaline that was making the decisions now.

He saw two other corpses in the yard as he ran, but paid no notice to them. He couldn't bear to. He had to get inside, his mother was in there! She never really went into the yard often anyway, and he thankfully didn't see her body, so he clung to the hope that she was in there, and still alive. The thought occurred to him of how he would get into the house; the entire thing was raised about 6 feet off the ground, just to keep certain creatures away. The steps were lowered down from the porch by somebody who was inside, but it was doubtful that anyone would be in a position to lower them down. By now he was within ten feet of the steps, and he saw the door was smashed in. With a sudden rush of adrenaline, he leaped up, and landed on the porch on his stomach, legs dangling below him. He dropped the axe as he fell, and it went spinning into the house somewhere with a loud crash. If whatever was in there didn't know he was coming, it certainly did now. Clambering to his feet, he drew his dagger from the scabbard he kept on his belt. He crept through the ruined doorway, and saw the axe stuck in the wall...which was smeared with the blood of one of the kitchen workers. The only people left now were Grimlon and his mother, if she was still alive.

He stepped over to the wall and pulled the axe from it, ripping some of the wood out of the wall. At least he was armed now, he doubted it would do much good against whatever was able to take out all of the farmhands alone, yet it still gave him some reassurance. He heard something...or was it just the slamming beat of his heart echoing through his ears? There it was again! Movement in the kitchen, and a couple of definite foot steps. The floor creaked loudest in the kitchen, and Grimlon prayed silently to the avatars that it might just be loud enough to drown out his own footsteps. He heard breathing, and sniffing. Light mutters as well, everytime something moved when it wasn't meant to. He was now just outside the kitchen wall. Holding his breath, he slowly dared to peek around...and saw a massive white wolf, standing on its hind legs, crouching to not touch the ceiling. A _werewolf..._ he thought, panicked.

Peering around again, he took a closer look. There was blood on its shaggy white coat, all around the muzzle mainly. _That must be why it can't smell me yet..._ He looked past the wolf, on the floor, and his heart dropped to his stomach. His mother, laying in a bloody mess, chest torn open, was on the floor. He wanted to cry, to scream, to run in there and cradle her, sobbing. But he didn't. Instead, he hid again behind the wall, and sank down to the floor with a muffled thump. That was his mistake. The wolf stopped moving, and at the same time, Grimlon's sadness was turned into anger. Why did this happen? How did he let this happen? No stupid beast was worthy to finish off his mother. With a roar he leapt into the room and swung the axe full force into the wolf's face, screaming in anger. Running on the same flow of momentum from the first strike, he backhand swung into the creature's side. Raising the axe above his head, roaring in rage, he swung it down with all his strength, throwing his weight into it, with a blow that could have smashed in an iron breastplate. But instead, the wolf lunged up, and caught the shaft in its massive jaws, ripping it from Grimlon's hands, flinging him across the room. "_Warlock..._" the creature growled, glaring at him through its swollen eye.

Leaping to his feet, Grimlon drew his dagger, a foot long, with a black iron blade held firmly to the smooth ebony handle by a heavy silver band. He held it in front of him as he scrambled backwards, the wolf creeping towards him. "_I've been looking for you...perhaps if you hadn't been cowering away, the vermin you surround yourself with may have lived._" Shocked at its capability of speech, he tripped over a crate, but managed to keep his footing. He was running out of floor space to back into. "_I'm not here to hurt you, demon, I'm here to tame you. Join me, and you can shed your pathetic mortal body, and embrace your full power!_" Grimlon had now made the assumption that he had gone completely insane. "GO AWAY!" He screamed, and flung the dagger with all his might, slashing its shoulder, to little effect. Rolling his eyes in annoyance, the wolf straightened. "_Very well. I lied. I will have to kill you after all._" Then, upon taking a step, its foot flattened on the dagger, pressing the silver onto its skin. It howled in pain, kicking the dagger away and lifting its foot up, and Grimlon took this as an opportunity to run.

Bolting as fast as he could, he ran up the stairs, away from the beast, who had by now stopped howling. He ran until he reached the attic, pulling himself up, and latching the trap door. There were old sacks of broken or unused farm equipment, and he rummaged through them, looking for something he might be able to defend himself with. All of the sudden, however, the wolf smashed up, growling through the trap door. The sudden eruption caused Grimlon to jump up, hitting his head on the low ceiling, dizzying him. Scrambling back into the corner, he cut his hand on something sharp, and cold. The wolf crept slowly towards him, limited by the small space. He grabbed whatever had cut his hand, in a desperate attempt to have some sort of defense, and held it in front of him. In his hands, was a hand-and-a-half sword, with a blade that glowed in the moonlight like silver. The black cloth it had been wrapped in slid off onto the floor, revealing its full magnificence.

About three-and-a-half feet long, the handle was wrapped in black leather, with a pointed silver pommel and a heavy crossguard. Thrusting it forward, the wolf yelped in fear, scrambling backwards through the smashed hole in the floor, tumbling all the way down to the bottom floor with a howl. Realizing the wolf's weakness, he bolted down the stairs onto the porch, to see the wolf bounding away howling, moonlight shining on its shaggy white coat.

* * *

**Chapter II  
New Beginnings**

Grimlon sat in silence for a good hour before snapping out of his trance. Rising from the porch on shaking legs, he turned to the front door, gripping the hilt of the sword so tightly his knuckles were white. The wolf was gone, that much was for sure, and he doubted it would be returning any time soon, yet he was still uneasy, and the blade gave him a strange sense of comfort, of security. Stepping through the ruined doorway, he took the time to examine the situation in front of him, unlike the first time. Black blood dripped from massive shards of the heavy doorframe, the one he had helped make when he was younger. The table, which had taken Grimlon and two other farmhands to lift before, had been thrown to the opposite side of the room, and was completely smashed. The floor was cracked in multiple different places, and paw prints were painted on the floor in black blood. _Must have cut himself on the door._ He thought sullenly. His heart dropped to his stomach as he approached the kitchen door, which was dripping red blood this time, not the black of the wolf's. Pausing, he prepared himself for the sight of his mother; he could barely remember her now; the shock had been too much. He breathed slowly and deeply, shuddering with the fear of the truth, willing himself to wake up from this horrible dream. Finally, eyes closed, he stepped through the doorway, opened his eyes, and couldn't help but burst into tears.

His mother, the slight woman who had remained pretty even as she grew older, was now a ruined mess of blood on the floor. Her face had been ripped off by sharp claws, her chest torn apart with it. She lay on her side, innards only half inside her, the blood pooling beneath her. Grimlon fell to his knees as the image embedded itself into his mind forever. He clutched her to his chest, and sobbed until he was incapable of producing any more tears. By now the sky had begun to lighten, and the stars were fading rapidly. His breaths were shuddering wheezes as he dropped the corpse to the ground. He clenched his fists, so hard he felt his hands might break, but he didn't care. He slammed his fist into the floor with all his might, and it splintered, slicing his hand in a thousand different places, but he didn't even feel it. Instead, he let out the most horrifying sound a living creature could make. Part scream, part roar, part cry, it contained all the anger, hatred, sadness, and pain he had ever felt. The windows shuddered, and some cracked it was so loud, and silver fire filled the house. He grabbed everything within his reach, and no matter how, destroyed it, picturing it the wolf. Single handedly, he tore the entire kitchen apart, pulling down the ceiling down on top of himself, ripping up the wooden floor, screaming all the while. He fell down, panting heavily, horrified at what he had done.

He was angry now, so angry, and vowed then and there that he would hunt down the wolf and slay him in the most painful, most brutal, most drawn-out possible way any living thing could every imagine experiencing. His mind cleared, and he took hold of the situation. He couldn't stay here any longer, he had to head out. Searching through the ruins of the kitchen, he found the sword, and this time took a further examination of it. The blade glowed like silver in the light of the dawn, and had very faint runes running down it. The hilt felt perfect in his grip, soft, worn leather wrapped in silver wire, starting from the heavy broad crossguard down to the pointed pommel, which was shaped like a dragon's head holding an onyx in it's jaws. He wondered why, in all places, it had been in the attic. A weapon like this, the mere sight of which had sent a werewolf running for its life, locked away, in the middle of _Doomwood_? It just didn't make sense. But he didn't care. It saved his life, and he hadn't even had to use it. Thinking for a moment, he decided to go to the attic again, to see if he could find anything to go with it.

He had to stack crates to get up now, the ladder was demolished, and there wasn't much floor left, most of the farm equipment lay scattered around the second story. He found the black cloth it had been wrapped in, and found it was actually a heavy hooded cloak, with a lining the color of blood, and two pockets on the inside. The only thing that was up there apart from it, was a locked chest, which Grimlon hadn't even noticed before now. Then again, he had never been in the attic much, only passed things up to the people who did. Holding the lock, he tried to simply wrench it off, but to no avail. He thought for a moment, before looking at the blade of the sword in his hand, then holding it high above his head, and cutting clean through the metal lock, something he hadn't expected to happen. With shaking hands, he lifted the lid of the chest, and saw a black sheath, attached to a thick leather belt. Looking closer, he saw a rune that matched the one on the hilt of the sword, and it fit perfectly over the silver blade. Underneath it, there was a set of black rogue leathers, with black metal shoulder guards, and matching gauntlets. Lifting them out of the chest, his jaw dropped when he saw the rest of the chest was full of gold coins! A small empty pouch lay beside it, held closed by a steel clasp. Opening it, he was disappointed to see it was empty...but he couldn't see the bottom from the inside. He put his fingers in...then the rest of his hand...then his arm, all the way up to the elbow! From the outside, the pouch looked only a couple inches deep, but clearly that was deceiving. It must have been some form of spell...but by whom? Who did this belong to? Or, who _had_ this belonged to? He searched the cloak for any kind of identification, but found nothing, and had similar results with the armor. There was nothing in the pouch either.

Thinking it over, he decided to take the items; there was nobody else they could belong to now. He took his time putting on the leather chestplate, making sure it fit him as comfortably as he could, which wasn't a hard task. It was as it had been made to fit him. The wristguards he fastened snugly to his wrists, and rolled his hands to make sure he had as much mobility as possible. He belted the sword and sheath, attaching the pouch, which even when full of gold was hardly a weight at all on his hip. Tying his long black hair back, he fastened the cloak around his shoulders. Heading back downstairs, he looked at himself in a mirror that was in his mother's old bedroom. It was now he thanked the avatars for his maturity; at only thirteen, combined with the armor and his height, he looked like a proper young adventurer; he hoped it would be enough to put off some confrontation. Stepping back down into the kitchen, he saw his mother again, and this time he didn't feel any emotions; he just felt empty. The sun had just risen over the trees by now, and he took it as a sign, a sign to a new age, a new quest, a new beginning. A new Grimlon.

* * *

**Chapter III  
Traveling**

The sun was now peeking over the treetops as Grimlon hopped down off the porch. A cool fall breeze fluttered through the air, playing with his cloak and hair. Walking down to the dirt road, he paused, wondering which way he should go. He remembered going right once, to the east, but there was only a small settlement there, and past that was only the vast desert of the Sandsea. He had no idea what was on the western road though, apart from that it angled slightly north after a while. West...wasn't that where Falconreach was? How far though? What may lie in his path? What if he was wrong? The old saying then popped into his head; '_All roads lead to Falconreach!_' Falconreach, the town of heroes, the heart of continent. There couldn't be a better place to aim for. On that note, he made up his mind. It was Falconreach, or miles of Desert, which only ended up leading to the sea. Before he could question himself any further, he headed West.

After a while, the sun was now directly above him, so Grimlon assumed it must have been roughly noon, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't know how far west he had come so far. It could have been 10 miles, or it could have been half a mile, but he hadn't encountered anything living yet besides himself, and he was grateful for that. Then again, he'd prefer something that was living rather to the undead; he shrugged the thought away. If the sword was enough to terrify the werewolf, hopefully it would be more than enough for some rogue skeleton. His thoughts were interrupted by a heavy rustling in the bushes. He froze, and slowly turned towards the sound, his hand slowly hovering over the hilt of his sword. He heard the rustling again, and this time a faint snarl, and the sound of something snapping. He pushed his cloak back, so he would be ready for whatever may jump out at him. Slowly, he backed further down the road, not taking his eyes off the spot. As he rounded a bend a few metres away, he faced front again, and his heart lurched when he saw a man yelling at two other figures. He darted behind a nearby tree, and crouched, praying to the avatars they hadn't noticed him. Thankfully, there was no break in the conversation as he paused to listen.

"...wolf was heading that way, to the farm. He wouldn't have left any survivors you imbecile! Have you _seen_ him? Built like a bloody brick chicken house! No stupid farmhand would be able to take him on, even if he was a Warlock! Now go back! Find the demon scum and bring me his head, or the master is going to be angry at all of us! Do you understand? Surely even you two grunts aren't thick enough to know that he could kill all of us."

He heard faint mumbles in response.

"Good; and if you see the wolf there, may the avatars have mercy on your pathetic souls; there's nothing I can do." Finishing the last line with a growl, Grimlon heard the man turn and walk away quickly, followed by a brief, strong wind, and the slower, heavier footsteps of the two grunts. Now they were conversing.

"You dun' think the wolf is still there, do yah?" one said, a thick, deep voice asked, with a hint of worry.

"Nah, o'course not. It's daylight anyway. Dem' dark creatures n' whatnot don't come out in the sun...I 'fink." The other one, a higher voice responded.

"Ya think? Yer not sure though? Well ain't dat promising! I dun' wanna go up against no werewolf...I've 'eard they're tough! And we ain't got no silver!"

"Dun' go ruining ye breeches already! If this works, we could get a fortune! Just 'fink, 'Bart and Grub; demon slayah's'! Won't it be great? I bet we won't 'ave ta work anovah' day in our lives!"

They both laughed. It made Grimlon sad, they seemed so innocent. They just wanted to get some gold and move on. If they didn't get his head; they'd be in for it for sure, judging by the tone of the man earlier. Then, an idea sprung into his head, and he stepped out. Straightening, making himself as tall as possible, he deepened his voice and said,

"Good morning gentlemen. So I hear you're looking for a warlock?"

In response to this, they froze, and held their cudgels out in front of them defensively. Both were rather short, but stocky, with grimy, worn faces, and bad teeth. They both wore plain leather breastplates over battered tunics. They looked rather alike, Grimlon noted, perhaps they were brothers.

"Eyup, you been listening to us 'ave ye? Been hearin' things you haven't been meant to eh? Whaddya know about warlocks anyway?" He took a step forward, and Grimlon did the same, staring down at him.

"I only wondered, since I know where the warlock is...but of course if you aren't interested, I'll be going then." He strode on, and was stopped by the other's cudgel, held in front of his stomach.

"Tha' was important business tha' was...and whaddya mean you know where the head is?" A look of disturbance spread over his face. "You don't 'ave it do ya? I-i-if we dun' geddit, he's gonna kill us!"

His stomach dropped. He suspected as much. "Easy now. I do have it, as it happens...and I can't give to you. I'm sorry..." The other snarled.

"You so sure of that are ye?" He smacked the ground with his club hard, leaving a small crater in the dirt. "I'm sure a dandy like you wouldn't be too hard to hide!" And with that, he leaped at Grimlon, cudgel raised. He prepared for the worst, reaching for his sword.

But suddenly, his vision was filled with a silver fire, and he could hear faint screams. Then, within a second it faded and he fell on his rear in the dirt, dropping his sword, which was now covered in blood. He raised his head, and pushed his hair aside, and saw the horror in front of him. Blood everywhere in pools. scattered limbs, a mass of entrails sitting at his feet, a head impaled on a sharp tree branch. He leaped to his feet, and spun, looking for an attacker, but there was nobody. Realization suddenly dawned on him; _he_ had done this, like he had in the kitchen! He whirled, surveying the damage, looking at the horrifying remains of the bodies. Looking down at himself, he saw no blood, apart from his sword. He jammed it in his sheath and sprinted onwards, not caring what he ran into next, only the faintest hint of silver light flickering in his mind's eye.

After an indefinite amount of time, Grimlon stopped running and collapsed. The moon was up now, so he must have been running for hours. He was panting hard, and felt like his heart was going to burst in his chest it was beating so fast. After a brief couple minutes, he stood, calmed, rested slightly. He closed his eyes and held his breath. He listened for sounds other than his own racing heart. Voices, music. Very faint, but certainly there. He opened his eyes and turned...and found himself staring straight into the face of a big, white, wolf.

* * *

**Chapter IV  
Nightmares**

Grimlon screamed as he was thrown into the beast's mouth, falling through the darkness. Darker and darker it got, as he fell faster, deeper into the abyss. His throat burned, and he was unable to scream. He could taste nothing but...smoke? Smoke and fire were suddenly everywhere, swirling and raging. It thickened, engulfing him, choking him, and he swore he could hear it laughing. Then it stopped. All the heat was sucked away from him, into the darkness...the darkness which he could now see through. Now he was falling...upwards? It got brighter and brighter, he got faster and faster, until he was vomited from the wolf, covered in bile, laying in an empty room. He was dry. Sweating profusely, but dry. A little girl stood over him with a bucket, shivering with fright. She started to cry. A little weeping at first, but it intensified into heavy, choking sobs, and heavy tears poured from her eyes. She screamed and sobbed, flailing wildly. Grimlon tried to move, to ask her what was wrong, but he couldn't. The floor disappeared, and everything else but the little girl went completely black. She was glowing a deep red. The red of blood, and fire. Her sobs suddenly turned into laughs, and she was now screaming with laughter, and Grimlon could see that her teeth were like a shark's; razor sharp, and stuffed in her mouth. She starting spitting fire everywhere, rose up high, and again Grimlon was drowning in smoke.

He pushed upward, the surface seeming only a few feet away...but every time he reached it, it rose, engulfing him. He couldn't breath, so he opened his mouth; and sucked in a force of heat so immense his lungs burned. He tried to stop, to close his mouth and spit it out, but he was choking, drowning, unable to move, his belly heating with it, until he burst. He screamed, and all the fire shot away from him, and swirled into the shadows, to form a massive red and black flame, looming over him with flaming crimson eyes. It reached out a fiery claw, beckoning to him. '_Come..._' It whispered, growing, drawing ever closer to Grimlon. '_Embrace me...embrace your darkness...your true self is me...yet you run...abandon the power that so willingly wishes to serve you...come...take it...NOW!_' It reached closer, but Grimlon roared at it; an inhuman roar, and it flinched back, darkening.

The monster shrieked and shot upwards into the abyss, spreading around him, forming into multiple figures he recognized. The two thugs he killed drew toward him through the flames, swinging their clubs of darkness wildly, faces contorted into silent screams. The farmhands, who he couldn't have saved appeared, armed with farm equipment, poking at him, also screaming silently. Then, the worst of them all...the ruined form of his mother rose from the depths, ten feet tall, screaming; but not silently. _''Help meeeeee..."_ she moaned, _"Saaaaaave meeeeee...don't let it get meeee..."_ she wailed, thrashing in the darkness. Again, Grimlon couldn't move, and he couldn't speak, choking on the smoke. Suddenly, she whirled at him and pointed a flaming finger. "_You failed me...you let me DIE!_" She shrieked, and dissolved into the darkness again, and then he fell deep into the blackness, until there was nothing but light.

A bright light it was, and he landed softly on the ground. He opened his eyes, he had shut them when he began to fall. Standing up, Grimlon looked down at himself. He wore a dark grey tunic, belted at the waste, and dark brown riding pants. He wondered what riding pants were; he'd never ridden a horse in his life. Black leather boots went up to his knees and he wore matching gloves on his hands. He walked forward, looking for something, waiting for something that he didn't know. He felt it before he saw it. He turned to see a far away figure striding toward him, so Grimlon straightened his tunic and waited. The figure turned out to be the man who had been yelling at those thugs back in the road.

He wore shimmering steel armor, that shone like a mirror, and had a long, curved sword at his hip. He drew it, and pointed it right at Grimlon's face, challenging him. He felt himself smirk, and drew his own sword, leaning back with the sword in front of him. The man let out a smirk of his own, and swung straight down on the sword; shattering the blade. His arm went numb, and he dropped the cracked handle into the white abyss...which was solid, but it simply fell through now. The man plunged his sword straight into Grimlon, forcing him to his knees, and then everything blurred, and went black once more.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself surrounded by people, on a straw mattress, sun shining through the window. He feared it was another nightmare, and tried to leap up, only to find his hands bound to the wall. He realized his feet were bound as well, and there was a rag stuffed in his mouth, which had a strong metallic taste. He looked up at the people around him, and to his horror, realized they all wore identical black robes. Now he had a reason to scream and thrash. He was in the hands of the worst being a citizen of Doomwood could be;

He was with the _**Necromancers.**_

* * *

**Chapter V  
Plotting**

The wolf's footsteps were heavy on the slick, cobblestone floor. Dim torches flickered on each wall, casting an eery light over the room. Back and forth the wolf paced, silently sulking, a tattered robe over his broad shoulders. Thirteen years of timing gone to waste. Thirteen years, based on nothing but a rumour, devoted entirely on killing a single boy at the right moment. Yet he failed. The wolf, feared throughout Doomwood, made a mockery of; by a mere boy no less! It was insulting, disgusting, and pathetic. He gave up his humanity for this, for the hope of finally escaping the wretched forest; this one chance of possibly returning to the world, and yet he failed. He was lucky to be alive...the master rarely let failures off so lightly. It would no doubt be the last time, that much was for sure. This time, this one chance he had, had to succeed, perfectly, without incident, or forever would he reside in his misery, as so many had before him. He gazed out of the window, glaring at the moon, with hatred nearly as sincere as that which he held for himself.

He sat down in an ancient wooden chair, that was once considered a throne, made of rotting wood and rusted metal. It was damp, and splintered, yet full of power, and wisdom, of which his predecessors all had possessed. Closing his eyes, he opened his mind to the seemingly infinite whispers that came from the throne. Hisses and growls, shrieks and wails, songs and screams of suffering. All of them filled his mind at once, and he braced his mind against them, forming an iron wall around his will, defending him from the evils the voices were. With his mind, he formed the whispers into shadows, shooting around a plane of crimson, lit by a massive glowing moon. They smashed against his iron fortress, trying to escape through his mind, but to no avail. Here they were weak, and he was strong, but that would change if he didn't find what he needed. He reached out a tendril of will, and searched among the mass of entities, blocking out the screams with a deep hum of his own. He touched them, searching for a specific presence, quickly, until he found it. A darker specimen, with a sliver of copper lightning running through it. When it was alive, it must have been an energy creature of some sort, the wolf pondered.

He dragged it within the iron fortress of his mind, as it thrashed and flailed, struggling to free itself from the nigh-unbreakable grip of the wolf's mind. Taking it to a specific corner; a white abyss; the two materialized. The wolf still wore his tattered brown robe, belted over himself, and he watched as the shadow formed into a young man, with red, spiky hair, and copper and silver armor. A short yellow cloak hung from his shoulders, only reaching his lower back, and an empty sword scabbard was at his hip. It shuddered into being, and opened it's eyes; entirely black, every part of them. A sand-dry tongue ran itself over the rough, cracked lips he bore. "**Well this is certainly...a familiar feeling.**" The being mused, cracking it's thin neck. It's voice was like thunder in words, so deep it didn't seem possible.

"You know why you're here I presume?" Replied the wolf, with his arms crossed.

The being grinned, showing yellow teeth; of which there were very few that remained in it's mouth. "**Well it's unlikely you're here to free me and allow me to go back to robbing old people, isn't it?**"

"That would be correct. You know why you're here, get on with it. I need information. An...ally of yours lied to me the last time, and the consequences for my failure were dire. Do the same as your comrade, and they'll be worse for you."

Again the being grinned, and barked out a croaked laugh. "**You wound me, truly you do. You don't even know my name and you accuse me of lying. Is this what Lore has come to now? I haven't seen it in centuries you know.**"

Rolling his eyes, the wolf responded "I do know your name _Carsal_, and if you don't get a move on I'll send you back, further than you'd like to be."

"**Very well,**" Carsal replied with a frown. "**What is it you wish to know? I honestly don't know that much. I was never very bright when I was alive. If I was maybe I wouldn't be here.**" It growled the last line.

The wolf clasped his hands behind his back, and paced as he spoke. "I need to know how to kill a warlock. Mention any form of mutation, and you're dead. Again. As I said before; your comrade lied to me, and this is my last chance. If you do the same, don't expect the master to be releasing you with the others. The master never liked liars, I should know. I was one. What I know is not good enough. All I'm sure of, is this one is aligned to darkness. This is a problem, seeing as I'm unable to wield light magic; what else can I do? I _need_ to kill him. For your sake, as well as mine."

"**Well for a start, I haven't a clue why you'd ask ****_me_****. I never met any petty robbers who knew much about Warlocks. But it doesn't matter,**" he floated up, higher into the endless plane of white. "**As you probably already knew, I am one with Energy. Energy is everything; without energy, nothing would move! Nothing would be powered, nothing would have the strength to continue. Everything would just...stop.**" A spark flew from his fingertip. "**The same goes for Warlocks. They need energy as well...albeit a dark form of it. But it's energy nonetheless! What you need to do, is learn to manipulate that energy. Difficult, this is, but not impossible.**" He flew a loop, and landed across from the Wolf.

"And how would I do that, exactly?"

"**Well you said he was aligned to darkness didn't you?**" He flew up close to the wolf and whispered. "**What better to control a darkness creature...than a Necromancer?**"

* * *

**Chapter VI  
Capture**

Panic rose quickly inside of Grimlon, but he shut his eyes, forcing it away. A-million-and-one questions rushed into his head. How did he get here? Where was he? Why was he where he was? Struggling to clear his mind, he took a deep breath, and opened his eyes. Six of the figures there were, and although he could not see any of their faces, he could sense their curious gazes fixed on him. He tried to speak, then remembered the rag in his mouth. Shifting around, he realized he had virtually no movement, and his only clothing was a rough, loose tunic that hung down to his knees. He turned his head to the left, and then to the right, and saw he was on some sort of large, circular platform, upright against the wall. Judging my the way it scraped his back, there was some sort of design on it, but he had no idea what it could be. He took another deep breath, and shuddered. Why was it so cold? There was sunlight coming in through the window. But why wasn't it giving off any kind of warmth? It shone directly on him- Grimlon suddenly realized that there was no sunlight in Doomwood. It was forever nighttime. What would a Necromancer be doing out of Doomwood though? The king had confined them to the ancient cursed forest.

After a weak struggle against his bonds, he decided his best course of option was to go limp. He looked back up at the figures surrounding him; all of their heads were cocked to one side. He shrugged. Was there any point in doing anything else? He tensed as the figure on the far left reached for him. Its hand was covered by a ridiculously long black sleeve, but Grimlon could see the vague shape of a bone-thin finger through the cloth. It slowly reached for his chest, then stopped within an inch of him. It then moved to the shackle on his left wrist. With a gentle tap, the metal split and fell to the floor, steaming slightly. One of the other figures did the same to his right wrist, then his legs. He slumped to the floor. He was far more exhausted than he realized. The two figures scooped him up under his arms, and lifted him lightly off of the floor. He didn't bother resisting; what was the point? They laid him down on a smooth black counter, which was ice cold. He wasn't strapped in this time. Nothing more seemed more beautiful than sleep, and so he closed his eyes and tried to drift off. But something in his mind shouted at him to wake up, to snap out of it. Quiet at first, but slowly building, until it roared within his head, and became so unbearable that Grimlon began to roar himself.

He was angry now, frustrated. He felt used somehow, something felt unjust. He leapt off the counter, and instinctively plunged a hand into the robes of one of the figures. It was so cold his hand went numb. He gasped at the sensation, and suddenly it intensified to the level of burning. His hand started turning black, as well as his veins, and it slowly crept up his wrist until he ripped his arm away. He whirled, staring in horror at the dark figures, who were now closing in on him. He bolted away from them, but there was nowhere to go. He was back in front of the round platform again, in the sunlight. Sunlight, it came from the window, so Grimlon dove through it. There was no glass, only a tingling sensation as he passed through, and then he fell, for a brief moment. He hit the ground hard, and rolled, crashing into something solid. He groaned as he struggled to rise, only to collapse again. He shuddered, over and over, uncontrollably, and tried to speak, but couldn't. It was as if he had no control over his body. He shuddered and shook, and thrashed, willing himself as he choked on the air, gasping and wheezing. His vision was blurred, but he saw a small, frail figure bend over him, and touch a finger to his forehead. He instantly stopped shaking, and fell into unconsciousness.

He woke up strapped to the circular platform he had originally found himself on. But now, instead of the dark, hooded figures, there was only a wizened old man, in an old black robe so faded it was grey. He reached forward and brushed a lock of hair from Grimlon's face. Grimlon shook the fuzziness out of his vision and looked at the man. His words were slurred as he asked

"Who're you?" He mumbled; it felt as if his tongue was made of lead.

The old man's head cocked to one side, and he stroked the end of his wispy moustache. "Bargus. And you disturbed my wraiths." he said, with a gesture towards the hooded figures who still surrounded the smooth black counter.

"Sorry 'bout that. Din't have much choice y'know. I just kinda...kinda...kindurvzhhhhh..." Again he lost control of his tongue, and his head sagged from exhaustion. Bargus lifted his chin and slipped a pill in his mouth. It tasted very sour, and Grimlon's lips puckered in discomfort.

"Swallow it. It'll wake you up and get rid of the taste." And so Grimlon complied. It slid down his throat quickly, and alertness returned to his stunned mind.

"Thanks for that."

"Hmm."

Bargus waved the wraiths away, and the glided through the window Grimlon had jumped through previously. Striding over to the black countertop, he tapped it in multiple places, and glowing runes appeared, the light flickering over the old man's face. He was mumbling something over it, and sliding the lights around. With a slow wave of his hand, they faded away without a trace. He returned to Grimlon.

"You have questions. I probably have the answers. Ask away, I've got time."

Earlier, a question would have come quickly to Grimlon, but now his mind was blank. All of the questions he had before just seemed...pointless. He narrowed them down to three.

"Why am I here?"

"I took you, like I was told."

This puzzled Grimlon immensely, but he did not complain.

"How did you get me here?"

"Well, I was sent looking for you. I found you having a seizure amidst some gore."

His heart sank when he heard this, but again he said nothing.

"Why did you take me? As in- Why were you told to take me in...and who told you to?"

Bargus closed his eyes.

"_The Wolf."_

* * *

Over an indefinite period of time, Grimlon's questions had been answered. The wolf who attacked the farm was the wolf who told Bargus to kidnap him, and that was all the two of them knew of him. Bargus didn't dare defy the wolf, because he knew he would not be strong enough to face his wrath, and he had no apprentice to pass on his knowledge to. The hooded figures earlier were not Necromancers at all; merely servant wraiths, primarily used to keep the fear related to Necromancy strong in the heart of Doomwood. Bargus was the only real Necromancer there had been in decades. There had only been one before him, and he had taught Bargus everything he knew, and more. Bargus wouldn't tell Grimlon what was to become of him, but took him down to his office dungeon, through the window, down a spiral staircase, to a simple desk with multiple books on it. The only reason he hadn't been hunted down and killed yet was because everyone feared Necromancy too much to do so.

Bargus lived a simple life. Alone, with his undead servants, devoting his time to writing down the secrets to necromancy. He would sent the wraiths to raid a graveyard now and then, but never actually kidnapped or attacked anyone besides Grimlon. He planned to spend the rest of his life there, until all his knowledge was recorded. Then he planned to take his own life, and wait for some adventurer to find his hideout; they always did eventually. Once he died, the wards and spells that hid the hideout would gradually fade. That was what would happen, and Bargus would finish his life with content.

But that never actually happens, does it?

* * *

"Wait," Grimlon asked with horror. "You mean...once the wolf comes...he's going to _kill_ me? Why?"

Bargus shook his head. "No. Not kill you. You'll suffer a fate worse than death. Had he succeeded in his mission the first time, yes, he would have killed you. But the wolf...you shamed him. You made him pay for his mistake. He's powerful you see...and powerful people _despise_ losing. I have no idea what he'll do to you, but I know it won't be good. On the contrary, it will end up horrible, gruesome, and very likely painful."

Grimlon almost wanted to cry. Of course here, as he had learned, his emotions had been considerably numbed. It was just a spell Bargus had placed on the hideout, to prevent himself from going mad of loneliness. The side effect was his emotions being muted. "But...couldn't you convince him? Couldn't you tell him to free me? Or at the very least give me a quick death? What have I done to deserve this? I didn't do anything!"

Bargus scoffed. "Why would he listen to be? I don't even know him. I fear him, just as the people of Doomwood fear 'us' Necromancers. Like I said...he is powerful. In soul magics. He could tear me apart in every way possible, and it wouldn't get in his way at all."

Grimlon couldn't find words, and sagged in his restraints once more. Bargus shook his head silently. "Well. If that's all, I'll be going. Don't bother calling if you need me, I'll ignore you. All I'm meant to do is keep you alive until he gets here." And with that he shuffled away towards the window.

Everything felt so wrong. What right did this stupid wolf have to do this to him? Slaughter his family...thrust him out into the unknown? And then prepare to torture him? On top of the fact that Grimlon likely would never know why. Now, this stupid old man was going to just sit by and let that happen? It was just...wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong, and unjust. He felt the anger building up inside of him...just like it had when his mother had been slaughtered. Silver fire flickered in his mind's eye. It screamed at him to release it, to destroy Bargus and flee, to hunt down the wolf and make him pay for what he had done to him. But he forced the feeling down. Instead he looked up and glared straight at Bargus.

"You don't know that." He growled.

Bargus turned, and eyebrow raised. "What...?"

"The people of Doomwood don't realize about you, yet they fear you anyway. Why do you fear this wolf, who you only know of by reputation, and rumor that his magic is so powerful?" With a sudden strength he wrenched his right wrist from the wall, then his left. "You're just going to rot away, scribbling away like a scribe, forever in fear of something that you don't even understand? That doesn't make sense to me." And with that, he ripped himself from the wall.

Bargus stood watching him, eyes wide. He now looked up at Grimlon, who towered nearly half a foot taller than him. Bargus smiled.

_"Good."_


End file.
